


beside the turbid water

by oculata



Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Summer Camp, Fluff, M/M, Summer Camp, Summer Love, mickey paints! very cute
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-12
Updated: 2020-05-12
Packaged: 2021-03-02 22:40:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,100
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24144517
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/oculata/pseuds/oculata
Summary: Ian and Mickey are camp counselors who like each other just a little bit too much and are terrible at flirting covertly.
Relationships: Ian Gallagher/Mickey Milkovich
Comments: 16
Kudos: 125





	beside the turbid water

**Author's Note:**

> disclaimer: i never went to summer camp. also, for the sake of the story, assume ian and mickey don’t live near each other when they go home on the weekends
> 
> thanks to [niamh](https://archiveofourown.org/users/niamho) for helping me out with this <3

Ian was convinced that hell was not a fixed location toiling about deep under the earth’s crust. In fact, he was damn near certain that hell and its inferno followed him all over Illinois and even across state lines just to make him as sweaty and miserable as possible. What he had done to deserve such an unusually cruel fate he was not sure, but everyday as he trekked across the campsite, bouncing between the various cabins and activity tents to check up on the campers and his fellow counselors, he swore he could feel the sun singeing the freckles off his face, and everyday he cursed his present self and any potential past selves for any wrongdoings that warranted such a barbarous punishment. According to the weatherman, that Friday was supposedly a few degrees cooler than the rest of the week had been, but Ian swore over and over all day to anyone who would listen that Ted on Channel 6 News was a liar who needed to have his meteorology credentials stripped immediately.

As he marched down towards the large activity tents lining the lake to do his one o’clock sweep of affairs, the dirt crackling under his shoes as he hastily trampled over it in a mental haze caused by the heat, he kept his gaze fixed on the glistening body of water that was entirely devoid of canoes and splashing campers. He was particularly peeved in that moment that canoeing, the activity that he led, finished on Thursdays instead of Fridays because Fridays were _always_ the hottest, and he was just about three seconds away from putting a curse on the sun. He wondered what he would give to slip under the water’s surface so the heat could be washed off his skin; he quickly ascertained that if the price of entry was a kidney or an eye, he would happily oblige.

The tents were considerably cooler than the outside, and Ian knew he needed to take just a few dozen more steps and he would have his relief. He kept repeating an encouraging mantra that started off in his mind, but with the sweltering heat and the drenched but still hot shirt that was sticking to his back and sides, the mental encouragement leaked through his lips, and soon he was ambling onto the gravel path, the final stretch of his journey before he reached the tents, babbling like mad and stumbling as if he were three sheets to the wind.

“Jesus Christ, it’s _horrible_ outside,” Ian announced breathlessly as he broke through the entrance of the arts and crafts tent, immediately feeling the coolness he’d dreamt of shock his skin. Trying to hastily wipe off the sweat that he knew was gracing his brows and forehead in an attempt to look halfway presentable, he scanned the row of plastic top folding tables lined up side by side until he noticed the blue eyes peeking up at him.

“That bad?” Mickey asked, chucking the paintbrush he was using into a cup of murky water. Ian sighed but managed to crack a small smile. When he noticed all the concerned and unsure faces of the campers sat at the tables, he realized that he’d been standing next to the tent’s entrance for far too long. With his feet still feeling a little unfamiliar with the ground, he hobbled towards the table Mickey was sat at with some of his campers and threw himself into the one empty chair across from his fellow counselor.

“That bad,” Ian confirmed with a heavy sigh, wide eyes surveying the table, noticing the friendship bracelets in various forms of design and stages of completion, strewn about plastic lanyards, along with the couple cups of cloudy water with paintbrush tops sticking out. Once Ian seemed situated, the campers resumed their projects. Ian kept looking over the paintings being done by the campers at Mickey’s table before eventually landing on the painting that Mickey himself was working on, watching how the man’s fingers fumbled with the edge of the paper.

“I didn’t know we had watercolors,” Ian said with an inquisitive edge to his tone, brow slightly furrowed as he kept looking over the creations.

“I didn’t either ‘til about two hours ago. The kids were real excited about it so we’re doin’ this instead of the lanyard thing,” Mickey supplied, playing with the paper’s edge for only a second longer before he braced an elbow on the table and cupped his cheek in his hand.

Ian nodded with satisfaction. “Good idea—what’re you working on, Ava?”

“I’m painting the farm that my mom and my dad take me and my brothers to sometimes,” she began, fanning her brush confidently across the top of the paper to create clouds. “I’m gonna give this to my mom when she picks me up tomorrow.”

Ian examined the painting closely. “Is the barn actually purple?”

Disappointment drowned Ava’s previously pleased face. “No, it’s red, but I’m trying to convince my mom to paint it when we’re there, and I want to show her how good it’ll look purple.”

“I think you’ll win her over,” Ian said with a nod.

“I know!” Ava returned, cleaning off her brush so she could pick up more purple.

“What about you, Mick?” Ian asked softly as his eyes swept over to Mickey’s painting, the shift in his tone evident. “What’re you working on?”

When Ian’s eyes finished their slow climb up Mickey’s forearms, chest, and collarbones, he was greeted by Mickey looking at him with a dreamy expression. His gaze, partially obscured by his half-lidded eyes and long, dark lashes, was clouded by an easy admiration, and Ian wondered how closely Mickey had been watching him examine all the paintings. The thought of Mickey regarding him so attentively yet gently made the blush trickle up from his neck and onto his cheeks, and Ian found himself giggling into his shoulder as his face felt pleasurably warm for the first time since he’d seen Mickey that morning at the counselor huddle. Ian cleared his throat and managed to straighten himself out as Mickey turned his painting around so Ian had a better view.

“Nothin’ really. I was tryna paint that little pier on the other side of the lake. Looks kinda bad, though, ‘cause the brown from the dirt bled into the lake a bit, but it gets the point across,” he explained, pointing to the landmarks on the painting as he discussed them.

“The lake looks exactly like that, though,” Ian contended with a smile, looking up just in time to see Mickey break out into a breathy laugh.

“Guess so,” he managed once his giggle fit had petered out.

Ian grinned at the man and took a final sweep of the tables, seeing that the campers appeared to be in good spirits and were enjoying the activity.

“Alright, well, it looks like you’ve got everything under control here, Mick, so I’m gonna head to the next tent,” Ian said, sounding bummed about the prospect of leaving.

“Better not melt out there,” Mickey warned with a grin as he sunk back against his chair. Ian sighed heavily and rolled his eyes heavenward when he remembered the heat that was waiting for him.

“I’ll try not to,” Ian promised as he slid out of the chair and walked back towards the tent’s entrance. He sent a tiny wave in Mickey’s direction before slipping out.

Mickey chuckled and leaned back over the table, taking the paintbrush that he had abandoned earlier.

“Do you guys like each other?” Ava asked blankly.

“What?” Mickey choked, dropping the brush onto the table. He scrambled to pick it up.

“He _definitely_ likes you,” Scarlett said nonchalantly from Mickey’s other side as she continued painting.

“Yeah,” Ava supported with a dramatic nod. “But do you like him back, or are you just being nice to him? I do that sometimes with the boys that like me if I don't like them back.”

“Paint your barn,” Mickey huffed before dipping his brush back into the colors. “And don't be nice to boys if they make you feel weird or uncomfortable or somethin’; they don't deserve that.” 

Ava chuckled and began working on the grass in her painting, apparently finding the answer she had been seeking. In retrospect, they had been even more obvious than usual about their flirting in the worst place and with the worst audience possible, but it didn’t stop Mickey from smiling for the rest of the afternoon.

* * *

They didn’t speak with each other for the rest of the afternoon and some of the evening. During dinner, Mickey was preoccupied by scheduling next week’s festivities and placing each camper into their preferred time slot for their requested activity. Ian watched him from the other end of the mess hall, trying to make out the words that his lips formed as he talked with the other counselors presumably about how best to coordinate everything. There was a flurry of noise around him, and a couple of campers even had to lightly shake Ian’s arm to momentarily pull him from his dreamy concentration, but Ian’s eyes more or less remained focused on the man across the room, studying how his hand scribbled across his notebook; how his mouth dropped open a little when he was listening to someone else; how soft and plush his lips looked under the orange light.

It took Ian a second to notice that Mickey’s writing hand had stalled. When Ian’s eyes trailed up from Mickey’s collarbones to meet his face, each man instantly began blushing and giggling. Mickey’s free hand reached up in an attempt to physically brush the blush off his cheeks, and when he realized that the flush was spreading to his nose and down his neck, Mickey cupped his face into his hand, but Ian could still see his smile raising up his cheeks. Ian ran a hand through his hair and tried to calm his own blush, but every time Mickey’s eyes would jump back to meet his after feigning interest in his notebook, Ian could feel his grin only grow wider.

“Are you flirting with Mickey?” Devin asked around a mouthful of mashed potatoes.

Ian blinked and whipped around to look at the camper. “What? No!”

“You guys are so obvious.” Devin rolled his eyes and stabbed a baby carrot with his fork.

Mouth agape from the truth of it all, Ian’s eyes flicked back to check Mickey’s reaction, and he could see just how hard of a time Mickey was having with controlling his laughter. Ian’s posture loosened, and he leaned back in his chair, offering Devin a peaceable chuckle and a shrug as a response to his very factual statement.

* * *

“Ah—so that’s where that’s coming from,” Ian announced as he approached Mickey, darkness stretching so far across the sky that only a strip of pink remained on the horizon.

Mickey turned around to the sound with a cigarette between his lips. He took the cigarette between his fingers, and a grin slowly appeared on his face as he blew the smoke out.

“Gonna lecture me like Alicia did?”

Ian screwed his face up and huffed a perplexed laugh as he strode up next to Mickey. “Hell no.”

Mickey hummed around the cigarette.

“Did she seriously lecture you?” Ian asked with some disbelief.

“For, like, twenty minutes, man,” Mickey answered, voice a little gravelly because of the smoke in his lungs. He took a quick peek at their surroundings before continuing. “So much fuckin’ ‘this can look bad on the camp’ and ‘what if the kids find your cigarettes’ and shit. I didn’t even say anythin’ back, just let her have her fuckin’ moment or whatever.”

“Jesus,” Ian said around a tense breath. Mickey shrugged and handed him the cigarette.

“What if I get lectured, too?” Ian teased as he took the cigarette.

“Least it’ll be together. Plus then we can laugh about it later,” Mickey offered.

Ian laughed around the filter. “So how was painting today?”

“I liked it. I’m so fuckin’ sick of doing those lanyards and bracelets and shit, and I think the kids are, too. I’m gonna ask if we can order some stuff to do sewing projects or somethin’ tomorrow before I leave.”

Ian arched a brow. “Oh, you’re not leaving tonight? Are you scheduled to see the kids off tomorrow?”

“Nah, man,” he shook his head. “I just hate goin’ home on Fridays.”

“Lucky you then,” Ian laughed. “I’m trapped saying the same thing and kissing parents’ asses for two hours.”

“Oh yeah? Poor you, but I’m feelin’ you’ll be alright,” Mickey said with a cheeky grin as he took the cigarette back. Ian gently nudged him in the side with a snicker.

It was silent for a few moments, filled only by the long exhales meant to cast the smoke out of their lungs and the fluttering in their hearts that happened when their fingers brushed against each other as they passed the cigarette back and forth. Darkness fully enveloped the sky, and the rising moon painted the lake with a white streak that fizzled out around the shore. Ian kept looking between the light’s reflection and the illuminated outline of Mickey’s profile as covertly as possible. The smoke sat so comfortably in his throat, and Mickey’s presence beside him felt so warm.

“Hey, uh,” Mickey began suddenly. He cleared his throat. “You, uh… wanna go down to the pier on the other side of the lake? Think it’ll look nice over there right now.”

“Yeah,” Ian choked out instantly, smoke lodging itself in his throat like a boulder and causing him to cough furiously. Mickey chuckled and gave him a few hearty pats on the back.

“You alright there, man?”

“Yeah,” Ian croaked, still trying to not drop dead on the ground. He finally managed to take a few smooth breaths. “Sorry.” He chuckled nervously and ran a hand through his hair. “Yeah, I’d love to go on the pier.”

“Aight, let’s go,” Mickey instructed and motioned his head to tell Ian to follow him. Mickey finished off the cigarette as they rounded the shoreline, making easy conversation about the various highlights of their activities for the week, which campers were demons, which were angels, how fucked up it was that the camp ran out of Funyuns on Tuesday and no one thought to order more, and Ian generally airing his unending grievances about the heat. They were so engrossed in their conversation that they almost walked off the pier together. They laughed and sank down to sit on the rickety boards, feet dangling over the edge and the bite of the wood digging into the backs of their knees.

“I dunno how the hell you survive in that house with all your siblings when you go home. It gets hot as balls at night,” Mickey said as he leaned back on his palms so he could admire the cut of Ian’s jawline and how the moonlight defined it.

“It’s like a fucking sauna in the morning, holy shit,” Ian shuddered.

“Your fault.”

“How?!”

“Could live somewhere actually tolerable in the summer like me,” Mickey suggested with a grin and raised brows.

“Mickey, as much as I love the idea of living somewhere that isn’t Satan’s den, I’m paid minimum wage and have five siblings,” Ian challenged.

Mickey laughed breathily. “Sure, sure.”

Ian rolled his eyes with a smile and turned back to face the lake, observing how the moon dipped further and further down the sky towards the water, as if it wanted to kiss its own reflection. He could see Mickey’s legs gently swaying over the edge in his peripheral vision.

“My town’s not all great, though,” Mickey uttered after a moment’s silence. When Ian turned around to look at him, Mickey was already sitting up and folding his hands in his lap. “Like, man, I always hate goin’ home on the weekends and seeing my dad and shit.” He rolled his lips into his mouth.

Ian’s brows twitched. “Really?”

“Yeah,” Mickey replied, squinting at the horizon and digging his nails into his palms.

Ian’s lips parted and closed multiple times, right on the edge of asking any sort of clarifying question at all, but the tension in Mickey’s face that extended down to his shoulders and was slowly invading the rest of his body made it evident that, whatever it was that troubled Mickey so much about his home and the town itself, it was still buried very deep under the earth, slowly being dug out by Mickey’s fleeting utterances that detailed his unhappiness, but neither he nor Ian could actually catch a glimpse of what they sought.

So, Ian exhaled a long breath and gnawed at the inside of his cheek for a second as he thought about what he could say instead.

“Yeah, I don’t really like it either,” he began right as Mickey’s discomfort was trickling down from his torso and into his legs. He looked over at Ian. “I miss this place a lot.”

Mickey’s taut body softened, and he blinked a few times before furrowing his brows and molding his lips into an unconvinced shape. “Wait. You’ve been complainin’ to me for the last month that you hate ‘takin’ care of demons’ and that it’s hot as fuck everyday. The fuck you talkin’ about sayin’ you miss this place?”

Ian’s whole being froze except for his gnashing teeth. “Uh.”

Mickey’s expression adopted a much more amused front, and he leaned into Ian’s body. “The fuck you missin’?”

“Um, well—”

Ian’s skin was burning, and his shoulders rose up in a feeble attempt to alleviate the heat.

Mickey leaned closer, wisps of breath flowing against Ian’s ear and poking at his side. “Huh, Gallagher?” he prodded, jabbing Ian’s side and listening to the man laugh from the sensation and also as a defense mechanism to hide just how lost he was in that moment. “What you missin’?!”

“I don’t know!” Ian shouted with a laugh and swatted Mickey’s hand away. “It’s not so bad sometimes, I guess!”

Mickey was grinning and clearly wanted to continue harassing Ian until he pulled out the real answer, but he opted to reinstate the small distance between them and analyze Ian’s features that tried so desperately to conceal whatever the reason was. Ian was so aware of Mickey’s eyes raking over him, and it made him feel so giggly and bashful that he was certain that he would spit out the reason in just a few more seconds.

“Aight, Ian, whatever you say,” Mickey chuckled and looked back towards the lake right as the words began to form at the tip of Ian’s tongue. “Mosquitos’ll piss you off tomorrow, and you’ll be right back to screamin’ about how much you hate it here.”

Ian sighed quietly, and his gaze joined Mickey’s.

“Maybe,” he mumbled.

* * *

“Bye, Devin—see you Monday! Bye, Nancy and Marley! Hey.” Ian extended a hand out to high five one of the campers who was in his canoeing activity. “Good work this last week, man!”

The Friday goodbyes never failed to exhaust Ian down to the bone, and by the time the campers were all finally gone and he had repeated his millionth goodbye and kind affirmation, all Ian wanted to do was throw himself into his bunk for a quick nap before it was time for him to go. And, typically, the walk away from the camp’s entrance would leave him feeling at least slightly reenergized and get him looking forward to seeing his siblings in a few hours time. However, as he walked back towards the counselors’ cabins, his chest felt oddly hollow and somber.

He peeked into the cabin Mickey stayed in, and his brows knit together when he discovered it was empty. He scratched his head and took a sweep of the area around him, half expecting Mickey to materialize out of thin air next to him. When no such miracle happened, he began ambling towards the cluster of activity tents in search of him.

He slipped into the arts and crafts tent. “Hey, there you are.”

“Hey,” Mickey greeted with a wave. He turned his attention back to the painting he was working on, putting the very tip of his brush in a corner of his line art.

“What you working on?” Ian wondered and sat down in the chair next to Mickey.

“Dunno.” He stopped working and examined the paper. “Some cows, I guess.”

Ian tilted his head a little to get a better look at the two cows on the paper, filled in carefully with a soft, translucent brown with scattered darker splotches, their noses a pastel pink that was concentrated along the line art. “These look really nice—you know how to watercolor for real?”

Mickey laughed, shook his head, and started adding fine blades of grass under the hooves as Ian watched his movements easily. “Not really, man. Dad would never let that shit fly at home. I took an art class in high school so I practiced a little there.”

“You’re really good,” Ian commented with assurance. “They look really, like, peaceful.”

Mickey’s ears tinged pink. “Thanks.”

“Can I try?” Ian asked, squinting at the cup stuffed with brushes.

“Sure,” Mickey responded, sliding the cup of brushes across the table. “How ‘bout you help me out by addin’ some clouds?”

Mickey retrieved a fan brush for him, and Ian eyed the man suspiciously as he took it. “Giving me the easy job, huh?”

“Gotta start somewhere noninvasive,” Mickey giggled. “Here, look, pick up some of that grey, mix it with a little yellow and blue, ‘n then kinda fan it on top like this,” he continued, demonstrating the motion just above the paper.

Ian tried his best to imitate Mickey’s movements, but his clouds just came out looking unnaturally jagged, and the color kept pooling in the ugliest places in the ugliest ways.

“Oh my God, I’m ruining it,” Ian blurted out. In his horror to drop the brush on an empty space on the table, he mistakenly drew a wide grey-blue streak down Mickey’s exposed forearm. And, in Mickey’s surprise at the oddly cool sensation, he whipped around and painted green across the back of Ian’s hand and down to his wrist.

“Shit, Mick, sorry! That was an accident!”

Mickey regarded him seriously from under his lashes. He reached out and swiped another stripe of green on Ian, this time on his bicep.

“That wasn’t.”

“You little shit!” Ian laughed and crawled over Mickey, swiping paint on his ear, cheekbone, down his neck, and just about anywhere else he could reach. Mickey was vibrating with laughter and yelping from excitement, but he managed to wriggle out of Ian’s grasp, jump out from the chair, and run behind Ian to paint the back of his neck, saturating the collar of Ian’s camp shirt in the process. Mickey kept painting the back of Ian’s neck and the hinge of his jaw until Ian flew out from the chair and spun around to look at Mickey’s face. He was able to capture a bubbling, giggly Mickey’s wrists in his hands. The two of them tried to catch their breaths, but suppressing their laughter was so challenging, and Ian could see how quickly Mickey’s cheeks were turning into an intense crimson.

Ian and Mickey both took a final, mostly stabilizing breath, and as much as Ian felt like he was firmly planted on the earth, with the way his and Mickey’s quiet, shaky breaths were mingling in the tiny space between their faces, and the way Mickey’s eyes were looking into his with a certain gentle affection, his lips found their way onto Mickey’s as if it were an automatic response.

Ian could feel the flex in Mickey’s wrist when he clutched the paintbrush tightly as their lips first connected, but he soon melted against Ian’s mouth, breathing out a heavy but relieved sigh through his nose as he angled his head so he could slot against Ian’s lips perfectly.

When Ian gently lifted off, Mickey’s eyes fluttered open, and a breath was caught in Ian’s throat.

“I think this is what I meant,” he eventually managed, the words coming out quiet and light.

Mickey looked up at him with shining eyes. “What?”

Ian exhaled and softly said, “I think this is what I miss on the weekends.”

Mickey smiled—hopefully, earnestly—and lifted up on to his toes to kiss Ian once more.


End file.
